


Scoundrel

by runawaygypsy



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Romance, Smut, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1478365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runawaygypsy/pseuds/runawaygypsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annabelle is a lady of high social standing who rebels against her parents' choices for marriage. By chance, she meets the dashing Sir Damian Rothchild III, a man of mystery, intrigue, and someone not at all like the men she knows. But who is he really?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Meeting of Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Sir Damian Rothchild III is inspired by the photos of Tom Hiddleston in Victorian clothing from Crimson Peak.

Annabelle Dinsmore was a lady to be reckoned with. She was beautiful, hair that twisted into long auburn curls, large dark eyes with a heavy fringe of lashes, pale skin that blushed in all the right places, rosy lips that looked like she was nearly always puckering for a kiss, except when she smiled and revealed her perfect pearly white teeth, and a delicate frame. Unfortunately, she was as stubborn as an ox. She had been born to Lord Arthur and Lady Jane Dinsmore, their only daughter, only heir, and had been expected to not only uphold their standards but exceed them as well. This included following their choice of prospective suitors when it came time for her to marry. 

Unfortunately, none of the men that her parents thought were suitable interested Annabelle in the least. All of them were of high standing in society, yes, but she found them quite droll. She spent many evenings either bored by their tedious proclamations of love, or seething with contempt as they talked about nothing but themselves and their accomplishments. Her mother dismissed the latter by saying, “Men are all like that. You learn to live with them that way. Just look at your father. Why, when I was introduced to him by my father, I thought his long-winded speeches about court proceedings were rubbish. I quickly realized that, as a lady, I could listen myself to death, or I could attend to something of my choosing, like my needlepoint, pretend to listen and have a much happier life.”

“But Mother,” Annabelle protested, “I want more than that. I'm not happy to be a solicitor's wife or even the wife of a banker. I want an adventure.”

Her mother would always reply, “Adventure is for those who do not have privilege.”

It seemed to a stalemate from which there would be no winner. Annabelle had nearly resigned herself to either choosing one of her many uninteresting suitors or relegating herself to being an old maid. Neither was a particularly appealing option.

Her parents were petitioning her for a mid-summer wedding, something near the end of June so they could show off Lady Jane's prized rose garden. Fiancee not withstanding, almost every aspect of Annabelle's wedding had been planned to perfection, her mother's, not hers. She had sat through meetings with a dressmaker, picked out fabrics of the finest silks, satins and laces from around the world, been fitted, had matching shoes cobbled, and a guest list made. All this before she had even chosen who she would marry. Annabelle had a suspicion that her parents were wanting to marry her off just so they could have grandchildren and ensure the family line before they met the grave.

One afternoon, Annabelle and her mother were visiting a sweet shoppe in town. After hours of tasting Belgian chocolate, Swiss chocolate, and everything else under the sun, Annabelle's tongue was numb. “Excuse me,” she said, “I need to get some air.” She was watching the hem of her dress, making sure it didn't get caught in the door as it closed, when she ran head-first into a man she had never met.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Miss,” he said, his voice low and deliciously velvet, “I should have been watching where I was going.” 

Annabelle glanced up at him. He was tall, definitely handsome, his face angular with a chiseled jawline. He had black hair that curled slightly around his ears from under the top hat he was wearing. When he smiled at her, his blue eyes danced and dimples formed on his cheeks. He was dressed all in black, pants, waistcoat, cravat, coat. A man of mystery, she thought. “It's I that should be sorry,” she apologized, “I was making sure my dress wasn't caught and I didn't see you.”

“A gentleman always takes the blame in these circumstances,” he nodded, “It's a good thing I'm a scoundrel, then.” He winked at her just as her mother exited the shoppe. The man bowed as she approached them. “Good day, Madam,” he said, “I was just conversing with your daughter.”

Lady Jane shook her head and haughtily announced, “A lady doesn't converse with strange men in public.”

He bowed again, “Well, let me introduce myself, then. My name is Sir Damian Rothchild the Third.” He picked up her hand and kissed the back of it.

“Sir is it?” Lady Jane seemed taken aback. “Rothchild? Where do you hail from, Sir?”

Sir Damian stood back up, his full height nearly dwarfing the women. “I am originally from London, though my family settled in Cambridge.” 

“And where are your kin now?” Lady Jane had a way of prying information from people. It was a gift that she could get a man to tell her his life story before he had even realized it. Unfortunately for Annabelle, this meant she also had to sit through most of it.

“Mother...” Annabelle began to say.

Lady Jane reprimanded her, “It is not kind to interrupt, my dear.” And then to Sir Damian, “Please, go on.”

He chuckled at their exchange. “My family is gone, sadly, so it is just I puttering around in a large, empty house.” He smiled again, his eyes staying on Annabelle.

“Well, we can't be having that,” Lady Jane exclaimed, “I'm sure you miss a good home-cooked meal.”  
She saw Sir Damian nod and continued, “You must come by for dinner this evening. My husband has invited a few of our friends and I'm sure they would make you feel right at home!”

“You're too kind,” he answered. “I would consider it an honor.”

“That settles it,” Lady Jane ushered him towards the waiting coach. “You must come with us this instant.”

Not one to disappoint, Sir Damian let himself be led without protest. He held the door to the coach open for the women, grasping their hands to help them inside. Even though she wore gloves like a proper lady, Annabelle felt a surge of electricity at his touch. She was sure he felt it as well, because his hand lingered just a little too long. 

Annabelle sat alongside her mother, on the opposite side of the coach to him. From her vantage point, she could observe even more. He watched out the window as her mother made small-talk, trying to ascertain who in her social circles he might know, perhaps find out more about his ambitions. Annabelle noticed that he had a nervous tic, tapping his fingers against his thigh as though to a song only he could hear. He had taken his hat off since they were now inside and she could see fully his head of dark curls, and the laugh lines around his eyes, those eyes that stared intently away from her. 

He suddenly glanced over and she modestly averted her eyes, sneaking a peek once again when she thought he had looked away. He was still watching her and gave her a knowing smile and a wink. “Your mother is crazy,” he mouthed as Lady Jane rambled on about dinner parties.

“I know,” Annabelle mouthed back. She let out a soft giggle, which interrupted her mother's rambling.

“Whatever are you giggling about?” Lady Jane wondered.

Annabelle stifled a laugh and ended up clearing her throat. “It's nothing, just a sneeze,” she replied. Like a true gentleman, Sir Damian handed her a kerchief from his pocket. 

Lady Jane turned her attention back to him, “So, tell me, Sir Damian, what profession are you in now?”

Her directness startled him. “Ummm,” he began, “I am currently a writer.”

“Currently, as in was not before?” she asked curtly.

Sir Damian was growing visibly uncomfortable. “Well, yes,” he answered. “Before I returned to Cambridge, I was in India.”

“So, were you a soldier, then?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He shifted in his seat, spreading his legs wide to allow for their length to fit more comfortably in the cab. “Honestly, Madam, I am not at liberty to discuss my service and it is not something I relish speaking about. I don't mean to be terribly rude. I'm sorry.”

“Tsk,” she shook her head, “Service isn't anything you should be ashamed of, young man, but if it is too painful for you to discuss, then I shall not press you for details. Besides, we have presently arrived at our estate.”


	2. To The Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Annabelle, Lady Jane and Sir Damian arrive at the Manor, conflicts arise when there is some inappropriate behavior.

The coachman opened the door to the carriage and held his hand out to help Lady Jane as she exited. She slid out, delicately placing her feet on the step and then tiptoeing down to the ground. All this took a bit of time as she also had to make sure that her dress didn't come in contact with the ground nor the coach itself. She fluffed and fussed, occasionally bemoaning her trials and berating her coachman with an occasional, “For goodness sakes!”

While Lady Jane was fussing with her exit, Sir Damian slipped across the cab and assumed the seat next to Annabelle. He grasped her gloved hand and brought it up to his mouth, kissing it lovingly and then rubbing her palm against his cheek. “Dear, dear, Annabelle,” he whispered, “Do believe me when I say that I loved you the moment I set eyes on you.” He punctuated this with a charming smile, all the while gazing at her as though staring at her soul.

Annabelle withdrew her hand, dumbfounded by his sudden proclamation. “Sir,” was all she could say. She had felt that surge again when he held her hand, but this time, more than her hand tingled. “I don't know what to say,” she whispered.

Not to be dissuaded, Sir Damian leaned in and kissed her softly on the cheek. His lips were warm and silky. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “You ought not to have done that. My mother and father want me to marry one of the men that will be at dinner this evening. I am nearly affianced. I daresay that, had Mother noticed that quick peck, you would have very soon dis-invited yourself.”

He chuckled, his tone so low that it nearly exited his throat as more of a growl. “But did you enjoy it, my lady?” he asked, his eyes clouding with mischief.

Annabelle blushed and held her hand to her mouth. She cast her eyes down, embarrassed, but with a furtive glance back at him answered with a nearly silent, “Yes.”

Sir Damian smiled smugly and motioned towards the carriage door. “It looks like your turn is finally here.”

She furrowed her brow in confusion, but, upon following his gesture, smiled meekly as she began to exit the cab. She grasped the coachman's outstretched hand, but she also felt Sir Damian's hand behind her, grasping her elbow, helping her ascend. As she concentrated on her exit, she felt a warm breath and then a soft kiss on the back of her neck, unnoticed by anyone other than herself. Lady Jane had already gone inside the Manor and the coachman was busy helping her keep steady. 

Once she was finally on solid ground, Annabelle started for the manor door. She glanced behind her to see Sir Damian eschew the coachman and bound out pf the carriage door, landing gracefully on a small patch of grass below. In a grand gesture, he rolled his hand in a flourish and bowed to her. His theatrics made her swoon. As he stood up, Sir Damian offered her his arm. “Shall we?” he asked. She took his arm and started for the Manor once again.

As they headed to the front door, Sir Damian looked around, astonished by his surroundings. The manor was huge, with a slightly faded red brick edifice. The door was flanked on either side by a carved white column and topped by a colorful arch of leaded glass meant to resemble a peacock’s plumage. The gardens he saw were neatly tended, the lawn immaculately manicured and each perfectly squared hedge punctuated by an expertly carved statue, each depicting gods of the Greek pantheon. With a quick glance, he recognized Zeus, Poseidon, Venus and the Fates, all in smooth marble. In the center of the courtyard where they now stood was an ornate pool in which he could see floating several lily pads and fish that skimmed just below the water's surface. “This is not what I envisioned when your mother said it was a manor,” he commented, awestruck.

Annabelle giggled, her hands shaking his arm slightly. “The name of it is 'The Manor,'” she explained. “One of my great grandfathers chose the name because it sounded stately, yet understated. Before it came to be in our family, it was called 'Brindlewylde,' in fact a carved stone with the name still stands at our gates, though the elements have been none to kind to it. It has nearly been erased.”

“I think I would prefer calling it 'The Manor,' as well,” he answered as he swung the door open and escorted her in.

The inside of the Manor was no less opulent than the outside. The grand foyer was tiled in black and white marble in a checkerboard pattern and was broken apart by a large staircase that fanned out at the bottom steps. The bannister was a dark oak, polished to a bright sheen so that it had the appearance of stone. In the center at the foot of the stairs was a thick Turkish rug and on either side, a suit of armor holding a sword stood guard. At the top of the stairs was a large painting of Annabelle, her mother and, presumably, her father all dressed in finery. 

As they passed through the foyer, Sir Damian let Annabelle lead him. They passed through a formal parlor, past her father's study and into the dining room, joining Lady Jane as she handed out orders and instructions to the staff for the evening's festivities. “Dear me,” she said as Sir Damian entered the room, Annabelle still on his arm. “Young woman, you unhand his arm this instant!”

Annabelle snapped to attention, quickly withdrawing her hand from Sir Damian's elbow. “Sorry, Mother,” she replied meekly, “I was showing Sir Damian around The Manor.”

Lady Jane gave Sir Damian a haughty look. “You, sir, need to mind yourself around young, impressionable women. I need Annabelle to help me organize the staff, now. If you'd like, you may join my husband in the salon.”

With eyes beseeching her, Sir Damian grasped her hand and knelt in front of her, his long, lean frame nearly as tall as Lady Jane still. “Madam, my sincerest apologies,” he implored, “I meant nothing by it.” He kissed the back of Lady Jane's hand.

Lady Jane blushed but quickly recovered, cleared her throat and said loftily, “As long as you remember yourself, we shall get along splendidly. Now, if you care to join Lord Dinsmore, you may find the salon back down the corridor and the first door on the right.” Sir Damian rose, let go of her hand and exited the room.

“Mother, what would you like my assistance with?” Annabelle asked after Sir Damian had left. “You said you needed help with the staff.”

Lady Jane shook her head. “I needed an excuse to get rid of him,” she sighed. “A young woman like yourself does not need to jeopardize her standing in society with rumors of fraternizing with mysterious strangers.”

Annabelle stared at her mother, hands resting on her hips, brow furrowed in frustration. “You were the one who invited him for dinner!” she accused, “I was simply showing him around the Manor, playing hostess. He seemed impressed with our home and I was showing it off as I thought you would, were you in my position.”

“I am a married woman, a solicitor's wife, a pillar of society and beyond reproach. I am the hostess,” she shouted, “You have not yet proven yourself, you are unwed and impressionable. It is only through the grace of God that the other have not yet arrived to witness that ridiculous display. People love to talk and I will not have my daughter's good reputation sullied by rumors.”

Defeated, Annabelle sat down at the table and buried her face in her hands, crying quietly. “What would you have me do?” she asked. “Would you have me be rude? I would rather suffer the rumors than have people think ill of me for being impolite to a guest in my home.” 

Lady Jane laid a hand on her back. “You don't understand the importance of social standing,” she tried to soothe, “As you mature, you will see. You will see.”

Annabelle stood up. “I'm sure I won't,” she answered coldly, “Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to freshen up before the guests arrive.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the dinner party commences, Sir Damian begins to see how futile a situation Annabelle is in.

After he left the dining room, Damian followed Lady Jane's instructions to find the salon. The door was ajar, but he knocked furtively as he peeked into the room. “Hello?” he called.

“Ehemm,” came the gruff answer. “Hello, young man, may I help you?”

Following the direction of the voice, Damian turned his head to see a man of average height, graying hair with a manicured beard and thin mustache. He wore glasses and was more rotund than the portrait at the top of the stairs portrayed him as. “Excuse me,” Damian began, “My name is Sir Damian Rothchild the Third. I happened upon the Ladies in town and Lady Jane invited me to dine with you this evening. May I come in?”

Lord Arthur laughed heartily and his belly shook. “Of course, of course, my boy! Come right in!” He grasped Damian's hand in a firm handshake. “Rothchild, you say? Where might I have met you or your kin before?”

Damian recounted his familial heritage yet again. He rarely thought about it, but today it had almost become a mantra. As he spoke the well-worn words, his eyes took in his surroundings. The parlor was more plain than the rest of the house, save for yet another Turkish carpet and brocade draperies, but still appeared to lack no expense. The walls were lined with a deep burgundy velvet wallpaper crowned with teak moldings that glowed golden in the late afternoon sun that streamed through the windows. There was a bar at the far end, well-stocked with bottles of brandy and Irish whiskey, several highball glasses and a small humidor. He finished his diatribe by complimenting, “You have a wonderful Manor, my lord.”

“Thank you, my boy,” Lord Arthur answered. He was more down to earth than his wife, perhaps even more so because of the liquor that had already warmed his spirits. “Would you care for a cigar?”

“I would love one,” Damian said as he selected one from the cigar box in the old man's hands, bit the end off it and spitting it into a gold spittoon in the corner and lighting it with a wooden match. He puffed on it and within seconds was releasing fragrant clouds of cigar smoke into the room. “Delicious,” he marveled.

“So, tell me,” Lord Arthur asked as they enjoyed their cigars, “What business are you in?”

Damian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I am currently enjoying a sojourn as a writer.”

“Ah, I see.” Sir Arthur poured two glasses of brandy and handed Damian one. “Cheers, my boy!” They raised their glasses at one another and smiled, then each took a drink from his respective glass. 

A servant knocked softly on the door. Peeking her head in, she announced, “Guests are arriving, sir.”

Lord Arthur smiled, “Thank you, Mary.” He turned to Damian and said, “Shall we?” 

The men exited the salon and made their way to the parlor. As they approached, the din of the gathering crowd got louder and they could tell the merriment had already begun. As they entered the parlor, Lord Arthur began introducing everyone. Damian lost track of how many men he shook hands with, how many women whose hands he kissed the back of. He tried his hardest to charm them all, hoping that the charm would deflect any and all questions about his past, save the questions of his parentage and his residence in Cambridge, and overall he was successful. As he mingled, he kept a keen eye out for Annabelle, trying to catch a glimpse of her, watching with jealousy as she was paraded around by her mother and made to feign interest to men he could tell she despised at the worse or was apathetic to at best. Every once in a while, her eyes would glance in his direction, catch his gaze and a flicker of hope, a smile, would appear, but these instances seemed short-lived and then non-existent as she realized that he was as incapable of helping her as she was of helping herself. 

Annabelle’s' painful discourse of the evening was relieved as a servant announced that dinner was ready to be served and the crowd began to filter into the formal dining room. There were place-cards on the table indicating where each person should sit and she was thrilled to realize that, even though he had been a last-minute addition to the soiree, Sir Damian had been placed directly across from her. Unfortunately, she was seated sandwiched between her mother and a middle-aged doctor who had hoped to win her hand. She had indicated her disinterest, complaining about his age, how he smelled, the way that he leered at her when he spoke to her and treated her like a child. Her complaints were dismissed like the demands of an insolent child. She had hoped that the doctor would ignore her, but she was not confident he would; true to his nature, he found excuses to touch her arm, to try and engage her in conversation, to gain her attention any way he could throughout the meal, so much so that she contemplated abandoning etiquette and leaving the dinner altogether. The only thing that made it tolerable was the amused faces and smart remarks from Damian as he looked on.

As the dinner wore on, Damian watched Annabelle in disdain. She was a prisoner of her parents' own desires, a tribute to be sacrificed to the highest bidder, and she looked absolutely miserable. Her mother seemed oblivious to her daughter's suffering as the graying man to her other side continuously made feeble attempts to gain her favor. He could tell Annabelle was being as polite as she could in showing her disinterest, but each time she glanced across the table, her look was like an wild animal trapped, wild-eyed, futile, begging him for help. Damian couldn't help but inject a some humor into her situation, first by waggling his eyebrows at her, then pursing his lips while pretending to thumb his nose, and finally by engaging her would-be suitor in a conversation that nearly led to his complete humiliation, and would have if not for the fact that the other diners sensed the sarcasm and took the diatribe for what it was, a jest. 

When the meal was over, the diners once again retired. Women stayed in the parlor to gossip, play music on the piano in the corner and sing, while the men took to the salon, closing themselves in to drink glasses of scotch, smoke cigars and play cards. As Damian followed them back down the hallway, he glanced longingly over his shoulder at Annabelle, wishing there was a way that he could get her alone and actually talk to her, get to know her. 

Annabelle returned his look with one of longing. She wished she could have followed him, pulled him aside, perhaps into her father's study, but that was not something proper young women did. Instead of escaping, she sat in a chair in the corner, watching the festivities, catching random snippets of conversation and imagining talking to Damian. She thought about his eyes, how blue they were, cool, deep, that they laughed even when he seemed dead serious. Her thoughts wandered to his mouth, the perfect pucker they set in when he was concentrating, the flick of his tongue against them as he whet his lips while conversing, and at this her face began to feel hot, her skin flushed. She began to feel faint as she stood up from her perch. “Excuse me,” she said, leaning close to her mother, “I am suddenly feeling faint, I think I need to lie down.” Her mother nodded and Annabelle made her way out of the parlor and half way up the stairs before the room began to spin and she needed to sit once again.

Damian conversed with the men about current politics, business, money and gambling until he had nothing of value to add to the conversations. Since he was the newcomer, the men were especially interested in his time in India,begging him to regale them with tales of what he had witnessed there, however, he guarded his past, choosing instead to weave tales of heroic conquests, things that made the men jealous, things that put him in higher regards among them, but nothing so fantastical that it couldn't be believed, and as he continued to inject detail after detail, found that the men seemed to be experiencing the adventure vicariously through him. All this was well until Lord Arthur began prying into his stories like a man on a mission, a man so unbelieving of truth that he was able to sniff out a lie and pick at it like a nearly healed wound until the floodgates opened once again to reveal a painful fount of red once again. As Lord Arthur began t push him for more details, Damian excused himself, saying he needed to get some air since he was unaccustomed to the thick haze of cigar smoke that now clouded the room.

Damian retraced his steps down the corridor, passing the dining room and the entrance to the parlor until he found himself standing by the grand staircase. He turned to look up at the great family portrait, meaning to gaze only at the likeness of Annabelle, but instead found Annabelle herself, crumpled on the stairs. He raced to her and knelt down. “Annabelle,” he whispered, “Annabelle, are you alright?”

Annabelle moaned. “I feel faint,” she said, her voice thin. Her eyes were closed and she didn't seem to recognize his voice. “Can you help me to my room, please?”

“Let me get your mother,” he answered, “It wouldn't be proper for a scoundrel like me to be seen accompanying a young woman to her private chambers, even under these circumstances.”

At this, her eyes flew open. “Sir Damian!” she said, alarmed, “I did not think it was you. I am so sorry.” Her face turned red.

Damian laughed quietly. “I had hoped I would get to talk to you tonight, I just didn’t envision it would be this way.”

She cast her eyes downward, “I had hoped to talk with you as well. You seem so different from those other men. The way they treat me, as though I were already their property. It's insufferable. I don't want to be some man's possession, to do with as he likes.” She looked back up at him in earnest, her dark eyes set upon him like the night.

Damian fought the urge to grasp her shoulders, to pull her to him, embrace her and protect her. Instead, he took her hand, kissed the back of it cordially and said, “This is not something I should be talking with you about. It's not proper. Earlier you told me you were practically betrothed, and yet, here we are.”

A fire built in her eyes, flames based upon rage, inequality, a need for some sort of social justice. “Forget proper,” she seethed, “I would give this all up if it meant not being married to any of those men. I would pick none of them, had I any choice in the matter.”

“And, had you a choice?” Her anger had piqued his curiosity.

She smiled. “I would possibly choose a man that could offer me an adventure.” Her eyes sparkled at the thought. “I might choose a handsome mysterious man who could match me in energy as well as intellect.”

“And that, my dear, may get you in trouble someday,” he commented, then stood up and held out his hand. “Shall we join back in with the festivities?”

Annabelle took his hand and let him help her to her feet, but when she was fully upright, she felt like the rug was being pulled out from under her once again and as her legs began to crumple beneath her, instinct took over and she grasped around his waist to keep herself from tumbling headlong down the stairs. She felt his arms encircle her as he helped keep her on her feet. “Steady,” he whispered, his voice low and melodic. “I would hate to see you damage that pretty face of yours.”

“I think I'm alright,” she managed, looking up into his blue eyes. Those eyes, his scent, the electricity between them was a heady brew. Her mind went blank and when Damian stopped fighting with what was proper and leaned close to her, pressing his lips against hers, she began to swoon. 

Time seemed to stand still, yet swirled all around them, until a single voice pierced the veil. “Well, I never!” came the screech of Lady Jane. “Young woman, you will march up to your chambers immediately,” she yelled, “I will deal with you later. As for you, Sir Damian, I regret to say that I would like you to leave this house. You are took advantage of an innocent girl and you are no longer welcome in this house.”

Tears welled up in Annabelle's eyes as she raced up the stairs only turning back to look longingly back at Damian as he gathered his hat, overcoat and gloves from a servant, put them on and leave.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annabelle and Damian face their separate lives after the kiss...

The heavy oak door closed with a decisive thud behind him, shutting out all light from his field of vision with exception to the near-full moon that nested on the trees on the horizon and the small torch he had been afforded upon his exit. As his eyes adjusted, Damian listened to the muffled merry-making he had been ousted from, halfway wishing that he hadn't been asked to leave, but not regretting the reason he was. He turned to gaze at the Manor and saw light bleeding from around the draperies of an upstairs room. Her delicate fingers curled around the fabric, pulling it aside just enough to peer out into the night. Damian's heart jumped as she smiled down at him through the glass. He waved, smiling back.

“Sir, would you like a lift into town?” The coachman's voice interrupted Damian's respite and drew his attention away from the window. In that brief moment, though it was only to shake his head, Annabelle had closed the curtains and left him there in the dark. 

Damian began his sojourn down the dusty road, preferring to walk in the night and risk trouble than seek the safety of a coach ride. His thoughts wandered as much as he did, from the curves of his beloved, hidden behind so many layers of dress, to her soft lips, her dark eyes. He shook it off as one does with a chill in the air. Lady Annabelle was not his, nor could she have ever been his, present predicament notwithstanding. There were too many things in his past that he would shield her from. Had he none of these experiences, he might have made a wonderful suitor. His parentage alone qualified him as someone worthy of hers, and, had his own parents been able to guide the direction of his life, he would have been a solicitor by now, or perhaps an esteemed doctor. Destiny had other ideas for him, taking his parents from him by way of influenza when he was merely a boy, leaving his upbringing to his lone Uncle Aleister, a drunkard who not only introduced him to the pleasures of drink, but also the world. After his schooling, his uncle had taken him on a sojourn to India, to the British territories, where he had procured them a bungalow, servants, food and wine. It was here as well that his uncle had seen fit to leave him, abandoning Damian in favor of a bad bet and a knife in the belly.

At the tender cusp of manhood, Damian was left on his own, far from home. The money his uncle had put away was untouchable and soon the bungalow and all its trappings were taken away by the landlord, on account of his inability to pay. Damian found himself on the streets in a strange world, a victim of circumstance. In these dire straits, he was determined not to be taken advantage of and went door to door of every English-speaking shopkeeper he could find to beg for a job. He found lodging at a stable on the promise of feeding and watering the horses first in the morning and last in the evening, the stable owners even taking pity on him and allowing him a portion of the scraps from their table so he wouldn't starve. This lonely English road was a long way from that. The air cool and crisp, smelling like fresh linens here, where there it was always sultry, smelling of sweet spices. He shivered again, his hazy thoughts clarifying with the cloud of breath that puffed from his mouth. 

The miles to town had raced by with his thoughts and he found himself not far off from his target. The lights from the stanchion of buildings throwing shadows on the street, the echo of life resounding through the bricks, calling him toward them. Damian found himself at the doorway to a pub, The Boar's Head. Inside he could hear the clinking of glasses, the songs of the street bleeding through from drunken mouths and he smiled, pushing his way inside, leaving his extinguished torch in the street outside.

“Ah, Sir Damian,” he was greeted by the barmaid. “Have a seat, I'll see to you in a moment.” She waved him to an empty table in the corner. He sat down, removed his hat and watched as the woman bustled around the pub, her ample skirts swishing between the other patrons, her hands always full, either with drinks or with slaps at the greedy hands of drunken men, all the while a smile decorating her ruddy face and dancing blue eyes. She finally approached his table, wiping her hands on her apron. “What may I get ye?” she asked.

Damian chuckled. “Hello, Meg, I'd like a pint of ale, please.” He removed his gloves and set them on the table next to his hat.

“None of your usual?” By which she meant whiskey.

Damian had been in the habit of visiting this pub in particular several days in the week, not only for the drink, but also for the good company. “No, I'm afraid I'm not fit for it tonight,” he answered. 

“Ale it is then,” Meg announced, turning back towards the bar and through the crowded room.

Most of the faces Damian saw this evening were familiar, but none that he had come to know by name. In his mind, they shared their names with their personal attributes, and he assigned them as thus. Only one face stood out in the crowd and that face was quickly approaching his table. “Ah, Damian, my man,” he said, “I've heard some stories about you today!” Kensington was a jolly man, large of proportion and larger of heart, not as likely as Damian to be a good-for-nothing and for that reason largely excluded from suspicion, but fellow-miscreant he was. His dimpled cheeks betrayed the propensity for awfulness he had.

Damian looked less than amused to see his friend. “Kensington,” he grumbled, “And what news have you brought me this evening?”

Kensington pulled a chair out from the opposite side of the table and squeezed his obese frame into it. “Word has it you were seen getting into the carriage of Lady and Miss Annabelle Dinsmore this afternoon.”

Damian nodded. “Aye, 'tis true.”

“Well, Heavens, man, what business did you have with them?” His eyes widened and he leaned towards Damian, the suspense manifesting as sweat as it dripped from his brow.

Meg interrupted the conversation with a foaming pint of ale set down on the table between the men. “Kensington, you better not be causing trouble,” she warned, waggling her finger at him.

He held up his hand and batted it at her. “No trouble,” he smiled, “But can I bother you for one of those meself?”

She rolled her eyes. “I suppose you want me to put it on your tab as well?” She shook her head at him as she left the table.

“You were telling me about this afternoon,” Kensington reminded Damian.

Damian took a long swig from his glass, letting the cool liquid soothe his parched throat. “I was invited to dinner,” he answered. “Nothing else.”

“Ah, but if I know the man, and I do, there was more to it than dinner.”

“Well, the company was more charming.” Damian grinned. “However, there will be no more social gatherings with the Dinsmores as I've worn my welcome out quite hastily. As a gentleman, I'll say no more about it.”

“You, sir, are no gentleman,” Kensington said accusingly, “I know you, I know what you've done, now out with it.” He pounded his fist on the table, nearly spilling Damian's ale.

Damian put his palm on his face and inhaled. He had such a past, Kensington being a good part of it, that he was trying his damnedest to escape. “I choose to say nothing more,” he growled, “Now leave it and leave me be to finish my drink in peace.” He leaned back and scowled.

Kensington stood abruptly, knocking his chair over in the process. “Is that how you're treating old friends now? Very well, then, see if you have a friend when you need one, and oh, you'll be needing one soon.” He dramatically, if somewhat drunkenly, stomped away from the table and slammed out the door.

Damian breathed in a sigh of relief. Kensington was one of the few men he knew that he trusted, simply because of their past together, but that past was something he longed to forget. He finished off his pint, paid for it and left a hefty tip for Meg and set off for home.

It was nearly midnight by the time Damian reached his own gates. The wrought iron creaked loudly when he pushed it open, but there were no neighbors nearby that would be disturbed by the din, save the man in the caretaker's cottage, but he was close to deaf and could scarcely hear anything but his own humming as he went about his work. It was a short walk up a cobble-stoned drive that had seen better years. Several stones were missing, leaving gaping holes that would certainly injure a horse, were one to arrive, and the hedges that had been so carefully trimmed when he was a child were now overgrown, their branches tangled with morning glory vines that were also threatening to take over the trees behind. Damian was not overly concerned with the state of any of it. His house was at the end of this drive, a stately mansion built of great gray blocks of clay and mortar, roughly resembling a castle with its tiered roof and corner turrets. 

No one was here to welcome him, not that he had expected anyone. Damian lived alone. He had been back home only a few months, but never bothered acquiring a staff. As he opened the heavy oaken door, a gust of stagnant air rushed him smelling of dust and mildew, the smell of neglect, of decay. The house had been left exactly as he had remembered it and he could see no reason to put in the effort to change it. He had cleaned the rooms he would use, the library, with its substantial desk and shelves upon shelves of reference material and fictitious accounts, the kitchen, where he occasionally prepared himself a meal, but mostly only stoked the fire in the stove to make tea and warm himself up before bed, and a small bedroom on the first floor, which had originally been intended as maid's quarters, but had been appropriated by Damian because of its proximity to the library. The rest of the house, he left to continue decaying, unused, unloved, inhabited by ghosts, either those of his past, or those that were real. 

He shuffled through the gloom without bothering to find a lamp or a lantern. These steps, he knew by heart. Down the hallway, past the library, was his room. He pushed the door open, moonlight flooding the hallway from the window inside. It was enough to light the room as well, so he could see what he was doing. He set his hat and gloves on the nightstand, sat down on the bed, the mattress puffing a cloud of dust as its down readjusted to his weight, and pulled off his shoes and socks, massaging his fatigued feet. His suit was next to go, as he took it off, layer by layer, folding it neatly and setting it on a nearby chair. He retrieved a linen nightdress from the bureau on the other side of the bed and slid it over his head, then slid himself between the covers of his bed. Damian folded his hands behind his head as he lay on the pillow, his eyes absently staring at the stars out his window, his thoughts elsewhere. 

At some point in time, Damian drifted off to sleep, his head filled with echoes of the past, ideas for the present that, had he the wherewithal to do it, would have gone into the library to write down in his notebook, but was too exhausted to do so. These thoughts melted into sleep, melted into dreams.

***

 

Annabelle trudged to her room, the sounds of the party left behind, memories of Damian's lips on hers clouding her mind. That kiss had been divine, a kiss incomparable to any other kiss, she thought, had she ever had another kiss her before. As she entered her room, she kicked off her shoes and walked straight for the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him as he left. She set the lamp she had lit on the writing desk next to her window and pulled the draperies to the side, just enough to peer out, but not enough to make it apparent she was doing so, lest her mother step outside to continue giving Damian an earful. Her heart stopped as she saw him there, his hat and gloves and coat now on, a torch flickering in her hand. She thought he looked lost, standing there gazing out into the night. And then he had looked back and glanced up. At first, she wasn't sure he had seen her, but then he smiled and waved. Damian had then looked away and, confused, she closed the curtains, laid down on her bed and began to cry, heartfelt sobs wracking her body. She had never been in love before, wasn't even sure if that was what she was feeling, but she knew it was different for Damian than any other man she met. 

Most of the suitors she had were tedious, proper, and withstood her obvious disdain because of the social advantage of marrying her. She really wasn't afforded a choice in the matter. They tried to talk to her like she was a child, slowly explaining what they did for a living, described their family houses in the country in great, exhausting detail, or the trips they had most recently taken, never to exotic foreign lands, but to the other side of the country, maybe Scotland or Ireland. 

Damian was different. She could tell he had tasted adventure and yet he seemed to have a distaste for talking about himself or his travels, preferring to dote on her. Where the other men she had been introduced to had been trained to only offer her a kiss on the hand or a peck on the cheek, Damian's obvious passions titillated her. And now, she was unsure if she would ever see him again.

There was a sharp rapping on the door and then it opened, the stern figure of Lady Jane striding in with a purpose. “What have you to say about tonight?” she asked accusingly.

Annabelle sat up, her face red and teary, and with voice hitched with emotion answered bravely, “I have absolutely nothing to say about tonight.” She stared into her mother's eyes brazenly.

“I'll not have my daughter looked at like a common harlot,” Lady Jane said sternly, slapping Annabelle across the cheek. “What happened tonight will not happen again. That man is not welcome in my house nor in your company.”

Raging, Annabelle screamed, “I am not a harlot!” She got up from the bed and stood face to face with her mother. “I am a grown woman and I should have a say in who I associate with. Sir Damian is harmless,” she pleaded, “He was helping me up after I fell on the stairs.”

“Humph. You are defending him and you barely know the man.” Lady Jane crossed her arms and furrowed her brow.

“You are arranging a wedding to someone I have not met yet, yet you act like I am crazy.” Annabelle stomped towards the window and pointed. “The world out there is so much more vast than your world. I am a grown woman, not a child, yet you persist in treating me as though I am. Can I please have a say in whom I marry?”

Lady Jane's expression softened, but her stance stayed the same. “Absolutely not,” she answered, “You are young, too young to have the experience to make a sound judgment for yourself. Your father and I are doing what is best for you, for your future.” She made a motion like she was going to move to Annabelle's side but thought better of it and stayed where she was.

Annabelle's eyes began to tear up again. “You mean for your social standings,” she said quietly, “You don't care who I marry, you care what I marry. I don't want to marry any of those men downstairs. I have no feelings for any of them other than platonic boredom. I could care less about their money, their parentage, their professions, or their societal connections.”

“Annabelle, you give me no choice. Either you agree to marry one of those men, or you will pledge yourself to a convent, as I am sure doing God's work would allow you some forgiveness for disobeying your father and I.” With that, Lady Jane left the room to resume her hostessing duties, leaving Annabelle alone with her thoughts. 

Annabelle struggled out of her party dress and into her nightgown with some effort. She felt like being alone and the thought of summoning a servant to help her do something she should be able to do herself seemed silly to her. Eventually, she managed, and curled herself up in the blankets on the bed as she blew out the flame in the lamp. Her tears made her heart ache and her eyes heavy, her mind wavering in a river of thoughts and feelings.

As she closed her eyes, sleep was already beginning to over take her, but she imagined Sir Damian coming to rescue her from her current predicament. In her mind, he rode a gallant steed, a white horse, like a knight of olde. He wore a top hat and tails, all black, in her dream, and he called to her as she sat in her window, like the Prince called Rapunzel. She would climb down the vines on the outside of the Manor and join him and he would take her away from all of this. A smile was drawn softly across her face as she fell into a deep sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun rose and with it Damian rose as well, refreshed and full of ideas. His first step after getting up from his bed and throwing the previous day's clothing was to hurry into the library. He sat down at the oversized writing desk, pulled his worn journal from one of the drawers along with a quill pen and a bottle of ink and began recounting everything that had happened to him over the course of the hours. He didn't record it for posterity, rather to make more of a reality of it. Without this, life seemed as though it never really happened. He imagined that eventually, these journals would be discovered, printed, heralded as the greatest literature, but it would never be in his lifetime. Though he proclaimed himself to be a writer, in reality, he had submitted only poetry to literary journals, had toyed with a full-length novel that never saw the light of day since its completion, and wrote family histories for well paying noblemen. 

As he wrote of Annabelle and her family, he was overcome with even more affection towards her, drawn to the woman that she was, as well as to the woman he imagined she could be. In his mind, she was strong-willed, even tempered, as saintly as the Good Sisters, but as sinful as the heathens. His memories of the kiss they had shared stirred in his loins, making him long for that closeness once again. Resting his pen on a piece of paper that sat on his desk, he began to plan. Being well aware of Annabelle's social standing and impending marriage, as well as her mother's opinion of him, Damian put wheels in motion to make her his, to possess her, to love her in every way he possibly could.

Standing up from his desk, he hurried back into his room, washed his face in the basin on the dresser, threw on his well-worn shoes and ran out of the house to make the trek back to town. He was in too much of a hurry to wait for a carriage to be prepared, as it was, the carriage would have had to be driven by the only other resident of his estate, the caretaker, who would have been useless. Instead, he decided to rush to the stables and saddled up his favorite horse, a buckskin stallion named Kit. He purred in Kit's ear and guided him out of the stables, down the long drive, through the gates and onto the road to town. While he rode, he contemplated how he would win the affections of Annabelle as well as her mother. While the scenery flew by, he thought, formulating a plan that even he had to admit was genius.

His plan included recruiting help from Kensington, knowing that the scallywag would salivate at the opportunity for a sort of revenge on a family as elite as the Dinsmores in some capacity. The man held a strong conviction that the elite families of Britain had caused the immediate downfall of his own and thus resulted in his ruination and subsequent arrest and incarceration in one of London's many debtor's prisons. Damian had asked Kensington once how it had all come about and the man refused to elaborate on the subject other than saying he had once been wealthy and that, due to a bad investment, had fallen to hard times and lost his family to a bout of influenza which was exacerbated by the drafty conditions of the shack they had been forced to live in. Kensington never told stories about his days in the work house, nor what exactly the bad investment had been and Damian never pried.

Once he reached the pub, he swung down from Kit, tied the lead to one of the wooden bars made for such things that was on the side of the building and strode inside. A cursory glance revealed no Kensington, much less anyone who would know him. Liz, another of the barmaids appeared at his side. “It's a bit early for a drink, love,” she smiled a gap-toothed grin. “Can I get ye a bit to eat?”

Damian nodded and took a seat at the nearest table. He drummed his fingers on the well-worn wood, his eyes darting around the room looking for someone he might recognize, other than the barmaids. There was a man in the corner, skulking in the shadows that looked vaguely familiar, but Damian was unable to get a good look, the lanterns on the wall just missing his face with their illumination. When the man caught Damian's glance, he turned away and covered the rest of his face with a heavy scarf. 

Liz reappeared with a plate piled high with rashers and beans and a pint of ale. “Will this do you, love?” she asked as she set it in front of him.

“Liz,” he answered already filling his mouth with delicious food, “You are an absolute angel.” He swallowed the bite and smiled at how proud she seemed of his meal. “Do you know who that gentleman in the corner is?”

She glanced over, but turned her attention back to Damian when he tugged at her apron. “Don't make it obvious you're looking,” he hissed. “I don't want to alarm him.”

“Well, how'm I s'posed to see 'im?” she pondered, wide-eyed and incredulous. “I need to see 'is face.”

Damian had been hiding his face in his hands, leaning on the table in embarrassment. “I was hoping you had served him,” he muttered through his fingers, “Perhaps you could go check on him.”

“Oh. Oh!” Liz suddenly realized what he was asking her to do. “I get ye!” She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirts and began weaving her way through the tables to the man in the corner. Damian heard her approach the man and ask, “'Ello Guvna, do ye need a new drink?” For a foreigner, her tongue could be a bit harsh, but Damian had long gotten accustomed to it, brash as it may be. The rest of their conversation lacked the volume for him to follow along, so he hungrily devoured the rest of his meal, washing it down with the ale. Eyes closed and stomach filled, he leaned back against his chair and sighed, waiting for Liz to return with her assessment.

She emerged from the kitchen, another plate of food and headed towards the corner table. Apparently the man was also in for a meal of rashers and beans as well. After she had served him, she veered for Damian's table. “His name is Edward Downing,” she reported, “'E says 'es headed for London.”

“Thank you, Liz,” he said, casually dismissing her with a wave of his hand. The name of the man was inconsequential. It was one he had heard before, but was unfamiliar with the man attached to it. In thous instance, his reputation was more famous than his name. Edward Downing was a known privateer, a former Commander in Her Majesty’s Navy who had gone into business for himself, shipping supplies, weapons, a matter of other goods that were sold with handsome profits to noblemen in London and abroad. It had been said that the man was ruthless, that he had come across his position by treason, though there was never any evidence to prove it.

Taking a deep breath to strengthen his resolve, Damian rose from his table and headed for the table of Edward Downing. “Excuse me, sir,” he said when he arrived, “I've been told you are Mr. Edward Downing. Please allow me to introduce myself, I am Sir Damian Rothchild.”

Edward stood and grasped Damian's extended hand. “Sir,” he answered, “Your reputation precedes you.” He had a hearty shake, direct and confident. “I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Pleasure's all mine.” Damian smiled. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked, motioning to the empty chair on his side of the table. 

Edward nodded as he sat back down. “Be my guest.”

As Damian took his seat, he asked, “What brings you to this little town?” His curiosity was getting the best of him, despite Liz's previous report. “This is not necessarily a hub of activity.”

Chuckling, Edward answered, “You seem to know my reputation, you tell me.” His expression was one of mischievous amusement as though he was anticipating Damian's answer.

“I know you were a Commander in Her Highness' Navy and you turned Privateer. Liz there says you're on your way to London, but this is not exactly a direct route.” Damian gave him a smug look and crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair.

“Very good, young Sir,” Edward nodded.” You seem to know me well, I'll give you that. I actually came for you. As I said, I'm aware of your reputation as well and I could use a man of your, shall we say, unique talents.”

“I've left that behind,” Damian scowled, “I'm a different man here. I've taken over my family's estate, begun writing...” He trailed off, the conversation becoming uncomfortable. 

“You and I, we are more alike than I care to admit,” He opened his other hand to reveal a compass, weather-beaten and well-worn. “You can't run from your past.”

Damian snatched the compass from Edward's hand. Incredulously, he asked, “Where did you get this?” A lump was forming in the back of his throat. The compass was a familiar object to him. He flipped it over and saw the inscription “To my beloved nephew.” It had been a present from his Uncle, the last thing he had given him before his untimely demise. The metal was polished, but still had traces of green tarnish in the details. The face of it, faded but still readable. He glanced up at Edward, eyes full of wonder.

“It was on the last ship I was on,” Edward explained. “It seems a young sailor left it in the Captain's quarters. When he was on the ship, he told the crew about his family, his uncle. He seemed rather attached to this compass, and when they hit landfall next, he left this behind. I understand you were that young man.”

Damian couldn't get a word out, his voice caught in his throat, his answer relegated to a nod and a sound with a semblance of a sob that keened thinly from his mouth. He held the compass to his heart and tearfully gazed at it again before tucking into the pocket of his coat. “Thank you,” he finally whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet.” Edward reached into his own pocket and retrieved a small bag of gold pieces. “I'd like to hire you to sail to the Americas. I have a new business opportunity there and you were specifically recommended to me with the highest regards by a common friend.”

“No,” Damian said flatly, standing from the table, “I said no.” He turned his back to Edward and stomped out of the pub. Once outside, he leaned against the building and took a deep breath. His mind was racing, his plans concerning Annabelle forgotten. The impromptu meeting with Edward Downing took the forefront, memories rearing their ugly heads and causing even more angst. He made his way towards Kit and rode home, once again taking refuge in his library. 

He threw himself into his books, devouring journal after journal, looking for something that he wasn't sure would be there. He pored for hours, his eyes getting tired and watering, his fingers slashed with paper cuts, his mind swimming more than before. There had been no food, no drink since his meal at the pub and he was starting to feel weak. Looking up from the pages, he realized that night had fallen, her dark cloak a shadow over his entire estate and the world outside his window. 

“Ah, me,” he exclaimed to himself, his voice echoing in the reaches of the room. He stretched his arms and stood from the chair, unaware of the lack of circulation in his legs until they were a mass of prickly needles. As he wiggled his toes and moved his legs, attempting to regain the circulation, he spied the journal entry he had written before his morning sojourn. “Annabelle.” he sighed, her face flashing in his mind, his lips reliving the softness of her kiss.

Damian ventured into the kitchen and broke a chunk off a dry piece of bread. He shoved it in his mouth and washed it down with a cup full of tepid water he had left on the table the night before. It was a poor attempt at a meal, but enough to give him a renewed energy. 

He once again rode out of his estate on the back of Kit, but this time, his destination was not the pub, it was Brindlewylde, The Manor. He rode fast and hard, directing Kit towards the unfamiliar, hoping that he was not too late, or worse, not too early. As they approached The Manor, he dismounted his steed, feeling every bit the knight of olde come to rescue his princess from the tower. He tethered Kit to the fence and proceeded on foot towards the house. 

The lights were out in very room, save the servants' quarters in the back, where lanterns flickered, throwing shadows on the ground to the sides of the main house. He took a deep breath and searched for something, anything he could use to get Annabelle's attention without making himself known to the rest of the household. Damian spied a pile of small stones, stacked against the ruts from the carriages that had driven there. He picked one up and threw it at the frame of the window Annabelle had waved to him from. There was nothing. He threw another stone, lightly, directly at the glass. Again, nothing. He threw a thirst stone again at the glass, hard enough to carve a small chip out of it. The flicker of a candle come to life shown around the edges of the draperies and then they parted, revealing the half-asleep face of an angel, his angel.

Annabelle threw open the window and, upon seeing Damian below, smiled. “What are you doing here?” she whispered just loudly enough for him to hear.”

Damian motioned for her to come to him and smiled when she nodded. In what seemed like an instant, the candle moved away from the window and was then running towards him from the front door, in the hand of the woman he loved. She stopped in front of him and he leaned over, blowing the flame out. “We don't want anyone to see us now, would we?” he shushed.

She stifled a giggle and pulled him to a gazebo on the far side of the garden, an area surrounded by frothy lilacs and shrub roses that shielded them from any prying eyes. Once they were safely in the structure, she pulled him toward her and her soft lips landed on his. As quickly as she had kissed him, she backed away, embarrassed, blushing. “I'm sorry,” she apologized, “That was too forward.”

Annabelle was indeed an angelic vision, her curls loose and framing her face, her cheeks flushed against her pale skin, her nightdress billowing in the soft breeze. “Maybe too forward to a gentleman, my Angel,” he answered, “But not a scoundrel.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annabelle meets her future husband.

Annabelle huddled against him, letting his arms surround her, his body shield her from the cool winds as they moved around her and threatened to lift her nightgown. “I wish my mother weren't so pigheaded,” she grumbled. “She has her heart set on me marrying Andrew Emmerich a fortnight from now.”

“What does this Andrew Emmerich have that I haven't got?” asked Damian, a tinge of jest to his voice.

Looking into his eyes, Annabelle answered, “Well, for one thing, he's to be a solicitor in his father's office.”

Damian laughed, “A fitting Lord for my Lady? 'Tis true, I'm not a solicitor, nor am I a doctor, but I am more well-off than your mother would imagine.” He stood upright, putting his hands on his hips and puffing out his chest.

Annabelle batted playfully at him, “Aye,” she answered, “But you inherited it all.”

His face darkened, the playfullnes flashed away. “No,” he said, “I inherited a house and a title. My fortune was forged by my own two hands.” Aware that he'd already told her too much, he turned away from her.

“How is that?” she asked, her hands snaking around his chest until she was wrapped around him, now.

Damian jumped, semi-startled. “I think I hear a noise from the house.”

“Oh, it's probably the cook,” Annabelle excused, “She always gets up early to bake fresh bread for breakfast.”

Pulling away from her, Damian whispered, “No, my darling, I should go before your parents have us both punished.” He kissed her sweetly stepped into the yard, bowed and said, “Adieu,” before running down the drive towards his waiting horse.

Numb from his sudden departure, Annabelle resolved herself to walk amongst the garden, inhaling its essence, reveling in it's nighttime beauty until she could be calmed enough to go back to bed. As she stepped into the cool grass, her mother appeared from an entrance at the back of the house. “Oh, there you are,” she said, “I thought I heard voices.”

“Yes,” Annabelle answered, “I was talking to myself. It's really the best way to clear one's head, you know.”

Doubtfully, Mrs. Dinsmore scowled, “Well, I hoped there would be no unwelcome visitors. You are engaged and a woman betrothed does not involve herself in childish pursuits.” She wrapped her arm around her daughter. “Child, you are freezing!” she exclaimed, “Now, come inside before you catch your death.”

Annabelle nodded, following her into the warm, silent confines of The Manor. Her heart was leaping as she thought of Damian's visit, and she hoped for his next. Each movement she made, from closing the door to her room and unwrapping herself from the shawl her mother had insisted she take, she imagined him watching. It prompted her to lift the curtains from her window and glance outside to see if he was there, but he was gone. Disappointed, she blew out her lamp and went to bed.

When she awoke, it was already bright outside. “Annabelle!” her mother screeched from downstairs. She rolled on her side and sighed, trying to will herself to face whatever it was her mother needed now.

Climbing out of bed, she made her way to the door. “I'll be down in a moment,” she answered. She picked out some freshly laundered undergarments and a plain cornflower blue dress. After getting dressed, she made her way downstairs. “Yes, Mother?” she said as she entered the parlor.

Mrs. Dinsmore looked up from her needlepoint. “We are paying a visit to Lord Emmerich today,” she announced. “Take off that ghastly rag. You need to look presentable.” 

“May I eat something first?” Annabelle was annoyed with her mother's request, but knew that. Given her tenuous situation, it was best to comply, lest she face another bout of her mother's wrath.

Lady Dinsmore nodded, “You may. There's tea and scones in the dining room.” She dismissed Annabelle with a wave of her hand.

The food was sitting on the table as promised and Annabelle sat down and inhaled its aroma. The freshly baked scone melted in her mouth and washed down perfectly with the tea, which, having had time to sit, was not too hot. 

When she finished eating, Annabelle peeked her head into the parlor. “Is there a dress you would prefer me to wear?” she asked her mother.

Looking up at her daughter, Lady Dinsmore smiled. “The green one,” she answered, “That one brings out your features the best.”

Nodding, Annabelle made her way back upstairs to change. She grabbed the green dress from its hanger in her wardrobe and smoothed it out on the bed. It wasn't her favorite, but, since her mother preferred it, she was obligated to wear it. As she pulled the blue dress back over her head and off, she imagined Damian standing in the corner of her room, watching her remove it and the thought made her blush, her breath catching in her throat. She envisioned his mischievous smile as she disrobed, fantasized about his hands on her body, helping her, his lips in wait to kiss her. She smiled secretively.

A knock on the door startled her. “What's taking you so long, child?” her mother demanded, “They'll be expecting us presently.”

Annabelle stammered, embarrassed, certain her mother had read her thoughts somehow, “Nnnothing,” she answered, “I just need some help with my dress.” She hurried to pull the green dress over her head.

The door opened and Lady Dinsmore entered. “Is that all?” she huffed, “I don't know what you'll do when you're the lady of the house.” She grabbed the hem of the dress and began pulling it down as Annabelle stuck her arms in the sleeves. “There, isn't that better?”

Nodding her head, Annabelle picked up a brush from her vanity and ran it through her hair. “Would you prefer me to wear my hair up like a lady, or down like a girl?” she asked.

Lady Dinsmore contemplated a moment, then took the brush from Annabelle's hand. “I believe up would be more becoming of you.” She brushed Annabelle’s' hair back and picked up a hairpin from the vanity to secure it into a twist at the back of her head. “Beautiful.” she said, crossing her arms and leaning back to look at her handiwork. Grasping Annabelle's hand, she smiled. “Let's away.”

Annabelle glanced in the mirror as she followed her mother and rolled her eyes. She was now the spitting image of her mother, a tad bit younger, but same hairstyle, same style of dress. She stuck her tongue out at her reflection just to prove it was still herself she was looking at.

The women made their way downstairs to the waiting carriage and climbed inside. The driver closed the door and they were off, the wheels following the well-worn ruts in the drive making for a smooth ride as they exited the estate. Annabelle gazed wistfully out the small window at the gazebo, her thoughts racing to the night before. She sighed.

“Is everything alright, my dear?” her mother asked. “You seem quiet, more withdrawn than usual.”

Smiling softly, Annabelle looked back at Lady Dinsmore. “Yes, I'm fine,” she lied, “Just thinking about this marriage.”

Her mother laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “It's natural to feel nervous,” she said, “I was the same way when I married your father.”

Annabelle nodded and turned her attention back to the window. Her thoughts were not with her betrothed, but with Damian. In her mind, she traced the contours of his face, felt his breath on her cheek as he leaned in for a kiss, his touch as he held her. He made her heart race like no man before and, even though she had only known him a short while, she was completely smitten. “What if I don't like Andrew Emmerich?” she wondered aloud.

“You'll learn to love him,” her mother answered curtly.

Turning her head, Annabelle seethed, “Would you have me wed to a man whom I cannot love? Would you have me tortured and suffering the rest of my natural life all because our social class says it is a good match?”

Lady Dinsmore was taken aback. “I've never heard such insolence from you before,” she huffed. “You haven't even met the man and here you already hate him. I'll not have it. I'll not have you disrespecting our family in that manner.”

Sensing her mother's hostility at the line she had crossed, Annabelle glared and sat back against the seat, crossing her arms in defiance. Her intent was to weather out the rest of the ride in silence, even though it was a long ride from The Manor to the Emmerich estate. She counted the buttons in the upholstery, the number of times the horses' hooves clomped against a stone, even took her small bible out of her clutch and scanned the pages, not for a favorite passage, but something that caught her attention, not that anything stood out. 

She heard horse hooves pass their carriage as it slowed down and gently put the book away. Her mother looked confused and began knocking on the roof, calling, “George! Why have we stopped?”

There was a shuffling outside and Annabelle heard George greet, “Sir, nice to see you today, sir.”

“George, is it again?” The muffled voice that answered sounded suspiciously like Sir Damian. “And how goes the Dinsmore family?”

“I'm taking Lady Jane and Annabelle to the Emmerich estate for the afternoon.”

Annabelle peeked out the window, saw Damian and smiled, hoping to get his attention through the glass. Her attention was rapt, willing him to look her direction, her ears straining to hear their conversation. Damian remained on his horse, a beautiful buckskin, and she watched as it shifted its feet, gently enough not to pitch Damian from his saddle. The small shift was enough to make him look down, though, and as soon as he saw Annabelle's face in the window, he tried to contain the emerging smile. He brought a hand to his mouth and pretended to cough, his eyes never leaving hers.

“You alright, sir?” George asked, concerned.

Damian put his hand down to answer, “Yes, though I believe I need to get going if I'm to be in Staffordshire by tomorrow.” 

“Then good-day to you and safe travels.”

“You as well,” Damian greeted, then turned to look at Annabelle one last time with an ornery wink. He turned his steed around and rode away, making Annabelle's heart drop.

She leaned back as the carriage lurched forward and began to roll again. His last words in the conversation ringing in her ears,”Staffordshire, tomorrow.”

Lady Dinsmore, who was more aware of the conversation than she let on initially, commented, “How rude! That degenerate deserves to be run out of town.”

“Mother!” Annabelle scowled. “Just because you believe he's a rascal is no reason to want to run him out of town. I'd bet he's a better man than you give him credit for.”

“Annabelle,” she answered, “That man is as bad as they come. There's something off-putting about him and I've heard tales among the servants about him. Regardless, you'll have nothing to do with him.”

When Annabelle made to argue with Lady Jane, she held a finger up and tutted her, signaling the end of the conversation. 

The rest of the voyage passed in silence, each woman concerning herself with menial tasks, ignoring the mounting tension, until they finally arrived at their destination. As George opened the door and took her hand, Annabelle emerged blinking into the noon sun. She stepped gingerly down the stair and onto the soft ground. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she looked at the house and saw two men standing on the veranda, both portly, jolly, smiling. The younger of the two descended the steps and rushed to her. “Oh my lady!” he gushed, taking her delicate, gloved hand between two sweaty ham-hocks. “I'm Andrew. I'm your fiancee!” His overly-excited, puppy dog face was glowing, his brown eyes searching hers, his smile broad with naivete. He was young, perhaps younger than she, dressed in a white shirt, a navy blue waistcoat that strained at the buttons, a burgundy cravat and dark blue pants. 

Annabelle smiled back cordially and leaned in to give him a cursory peck on the cheek. She pulled her hand from his grasp and batted her eyelashes. “So very nice to meet you,” she said primly, enunciating each word.

“My dear, don't be coy,” her mother scolded as she made her way out of the carriage. When she reached Annabelle and Andrew, the boy took her hand and planted a kiss on the back of her hand. 

“Lady Jane,” he rasped, “Always a pleasure to see you.”

The older gentleman beckoned them up to the house. “Lady Jane, Annabelle,” he called, “Won't you please join us in the parlor?”

Andrew grasped Annabelle by the elbow, helping her maneuver past her long skirts as she went up the stairs. She really had no need of his assistance, but he seemed so eager to please, that she felt obligated to let him help her as they made their way up the red bricks. When they reached the top, she once again pulled herself from him and curtsied to Lord Emmerich. “Sir,” she said as she smiled up at him, “It's nice to meet you.”

“For land sakes, child,” he laughed a deep, rolling laugh, “You don't need to be so proper. We're nearly family!” He bid her up from her curtsy and enveloped her in a bear hug. As he let go, Annabelle stumbled, but Andrew was there to catch her.

“Thank you, Andrew,” she said as she smoothed down her dress and adjusted her hat from being smooshed. 

“Anything for you, my dearest,” Andrew gushed, motioning for her to enter the house. A servant held the door open and stepped back as Annabelle crossed the threshold. She pointed to the parlor and smiled.

“Thank you,” Annabelle said graciously. 

She disappeared through a doorway and found herself in a room decorated delicately in whites and pinks, with hints of gold leaf. The settee was positioned under a large window that looked out onto a flowering garden, and there was also an abundance of chairs placed so that one might share conversation comfortably with anyone in the room. She sat on the settee, arranging her skirts around her legs and being mindful of her posture. Andrew dropped down heavily next to her and sighed. “In a fortnight, we will have our own home like this,” he swooned. “Would you like that, my darling?”

“It's beautiful,” Annabelle commented, trying her best to sound sincere, though, in reality, she thought the decorations a bit gaudy. She glanced at Andrew and smiled weakly. He was grinning ear to ear and his eyes were fixed on her as though he was waiting for her to share his enthusiasm. 

Lady Jane and Lord Emmerich entered the room and sat in adjacent chairs, watching the young couple. “It looks as though you two get along splendidly,” Lady Jane nodded.

“I feel as though I already know Annabelle,” gushed Andrew. He reached over and grasped her hand again, squeezing it against his own thigh.   
Lord Emmerich smiled approvingly, “As it should be.” He then directed his attention to Lady Dinsmore. “My lady, shall we discuss particulars in my study?”

“We shall,” Lady Jane nodded, standing once again. Lord Emmerich stood as well, motioning for her to follow him to another room. “Perhaps you two should take a walk around the garden?” She raised her eyebrow at Annabelle, an indication that it was not a suggestion so much as a command.

“Sounds lovely,” Annabelle smiled sweetly and rose from her seat.

Andrew stood quickly and was right at her side again. “It's this way, my darling,” he crooned in her ear, pulling her by the hand. He dragged her through the house to a pair of french doors just off the kitchen, then outside to the back veranda, down a set of stairs that matched those on the front of the house and then into the soft grass of the yard. Annabelle had no idea he could move as swiftly as he did.

As he moved to sweep her under an arbor of wisteria, she exclaimed, “Please, let me catch my breath!”

“Sorry,” he apologized, “I've never had anyone to share this with before.” He cast his eyes downward and she was certain he was on the verge of tears.

“It's alright,” she said softly, touching his shoulder with her free hand. “Really? No one else?”

He shook his head. “No, I only meet people in town.” His eyes flicked back up to her. “I'm a mite shy.”

“How are you supposed to be a solicitor, then?” she was confused by the conflicting reports her mother had fed her and this creature before her.

“Well, I'm not going to be, you see,” he laughed nervously. “I'm a clerk. I process the paperwork and file it and do the bookkeeping.”

She smiled and nodded toward the arbor. “Shall we?”

Andrew relaxed and grinned back at her, pulling her into what was a crudely but beautifully constructed maze, made out of the wisteria vines and huge rose bushes. The smell was a heady one, sweet and cloying and it made Annabelle dizzy. They walked lazily through, her arm threaded around his elbow, and talked. She found that, not only had her mother misrepresented his profession, she had also completely missed the mark on his father's intentions in marrying the two of them.

“My father is hoping that this match will also allow him to wed again,” Andrew explained as they chatted, “He has been so worried about my own well-being that he has not bothered to find a suitable match for himself and he has been so lonely since Mother died.” He sighed.

Nodding, Annabelle said, “I understand.” She sympathized with him and vowed to set the record straight with her mother once they were in the confines of the carriage again. 

As the couple finished their tour of the maze and exited out of the same arbor they had entered, they spied Lord Emmerich and Lady Dinsmore seated at a table on the veranda. “Hallo!” called Lord Emmerich, “Will you two lovebirds join us for tea?”

As they ascended the stairs, Andrew and Annabelle nodded. “I'm parched,” feigned Annabelle, putting her hand on her forehead.

Andrew pulled a chair out for her and bid her to sit, “For you, my darling.” He was perfectly gentlemanly and Annabelle thought he was sweet, but she couldn't stop comparing him to Damian. They were opposite of each other in every respect and she couldn't help feeling desire for one and nothing more than friendship for the other. 

“This is a beautiful garden you have, Lord Emmerich,” she commented as she sat.

“Thank you, Annabelle,” he nodded. “This was a wedding gift for Lady Mary, bless her soul.” Both he and Andrew bowed their heads for a moment in respect. “It shall be yours when you and Andrew are wed.”

Stunned, Annabelle's only response was, “Thank you! Will you be here with us, then?”

“No,” he answered, “After the wedding, I'll be taking leave to Cambridge to take a professorship. It's time I leave my legacy elsewhere.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry no update for a while- I was on vacation and had a few other things to work on. I am sure this will not be the only update this week as I have ideas literally bursting out of my head for Sir Damian and Annabelle.

Damian concealed himself outside the gate of The Manor, waited for the carriage to leave and, when it did, rode his stallion a good measure ahead of it in the same direction. He was confident that George, the driver had not noticed him passing them as he was concerned with fussing with the reigns of his own horses and giving directions to the apprentice that rode with him on the hard, wooden bench atop the coach. Not that he would have been recognized immediately, having dawned a black woolen cloak with a low hood, a relic he had found in an upstairs bedroom that smelled of mildew but was wearable after a good washing.

Slowing Kit down to a canter, Damian whistled quietly as he waited to put his plan into motion. Confident that the carriage was still a good measure behind him, he stopped Kit, letting his horse take a break until he saw a plume of dust on the horizon. He waited for it to get closer, then spurred his steed on, back in the direction he had already come. Head-on into the tempest he rode, hoping that this simple exchange between himself and the Dinsmore's coachman would provide him ample enough of an alibi. 

“Ho, there!” He waved as the carriage slowed and then stopped in front of him. George was playing right into his hand. He knew how to play the game so well, as it was something he had often used during his travels, a ploy to throw anyone who might be suspicious off his scent completely. Quite satisfied with his own performance, Damian smiled to himself, then glanced down and there she was, and angel personified, her face perfectly framed by the oval window in the carriage door. Annabelle smiled and waved at him, almost as though she knew what he had planned. Damian didn't even know how his plan would come entirely to fruition, but her smile told him everything would be alright in the end.

After the simple exchange, Damian rode away, leaving his love to an afternoon that he knew was pure torture for her, hopefully the last of its kind she would ever have. He rode Kit to a small forest, lush and green, it's trees a canopy filtering bits of sunlight, providing protection from the heat of the day. There was a small pond fed by an underground spring, waters pure and clear. Damian led Kit to the pond to let him drink and took a good, long swig from the bottle of wine he had stashed in his saddle bag. As Kit chomped hungrily at some reeds and grasses along the pond's muddy bank, Damian sated his hunger with a chunk of hard cheese, some slices of dry bread, and slices of salami that had been imported from Italy. He withdrew a wineskin from his saddle bag and took a healthy swig of the now warm liquid.

“Kit, you rascal,” he laughed as the horse approached him and nibbled gingerly on the piece of bread he held in his hand. 

Damian found a grassy knoll, led Kit to a nearby tree and tethered his lead. He drew a small notebook from his saddle bag and pen and ink, sat down on the grass and began to write observations of his surroundings, hoping that something here would inspire him. The trees here were just getting their greenery, spring weather having officially arrived only three weeks prior. The buds of flowers were visible, their tendrils still wrapped tightly, giving no indication of their release. Spring grasses grew thick, a carpet of velvety moss in patches within it. He observed all this and more, throwing himself into detailed descriptions and sketches of the birds he saw as they sat in the skeletal branches, the insects as they hummed about their work and scurried up tree trunks, while he waited to hear the wheels of the Dinsmore's carriage upon the rough and tumble road.

It was some hours before there was any noise other than the chirruping of the crickets and the melodies of the avian, and that was in the form of the clop of hooves heavy upon the wheel ruts. Damian rose to investigate, the seat of his pants damp with dew. He hid behind one of the thicker trees, glancing around it to see who was approaching. Stilling his breath, he watched a lone horse, a black stallion of impressive stature, as it slowly came into view. Upon that horse was a man, face covered by a scarf, wearing a large brimmed hat. Damian was not near enough Kit to pull his rifle out, so he held his hand on the dagger that was hidden behind the confines of his coat. “Who goes there?” he shouted, his voice echoing, replacing the sound of the hooves as they stopped.

The man pulled his scarf away from his mouth. “Edward Downing, sir,” he yelled back. “I mean you no harm. I've business in London.”

Damian moved around the tree so Edward could see him. “I see,” he said, holding his hands away from him, a move meant to elicit trust. “'Tis I, Damian. I wanted to make sure you were no bandit.”

“Not that kind of bandit,” Edward responded, getting himself down from his horse. “Have ye thought about my offer?” 

“I have,” Damian answered. “I might take you up on it, but I've some business to attend to here, first.”

“Well, the offer still stands.” Edward extended his hand, a small piece of paper with writing was in it. “I'll be leaving, myself, in a few days, but I'll be leaving my squire at the London office to look after things here until everything is settled.”

Damian grasped the paper. Edward had written an address on it, and a name: Giles Crane. “Thank you.” He folded it neatly and tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Shall I send word if I do take you up on it.”

Edward shook his head. “None is necessary. I know you'll accept.” He swung himself up onto his horse again. “I've a deadline to make.” He spurred his horse on with his boot heels and together they galloped away, once again leaving Damian alone in his glen.

Hours passed before the Dinsmore's carriage appeared in the distance. It was near dark and Damian could barely see it, the only indication of its presence being the twin lanterns swinging from it and the clip clop of the horse hooves as they slowly pulled it along. He untied Kit from his tether and swung into his saddle, waiting for it to pass. It seemed to take an eternity, each minute measured by a stanza of heartbeats, until, at last, the coach passed him, the coachman blissfully unaware of Damian's presence. 

Damian let the carriage get a good distance away before he guided Kit to the road, keeping him on the grass just to the side so that his hooves would be muffled. Slowly, they cantered, following the Dinsmores to The Manor. Once he reached the front gate, Damian dismounted and tethered Kit to the wrought iron, then stole away inside the high walls, keeping to the perimeter. As he sidled along, taking care to avoid the statues and the thorny bushes, he spied her, his Annabelle. She had just exited the coach and was glancing around the yard. She looked exhausted, but the moment she saw Damian in the shadows, a spark of recognition ignited in her eyes and she was aglow. 

Annabelle dismissed the coachman with a wave of her hand and called to her mother. “I'll be in shortly,” she said, “I'd like a walk around the garden after such a long trip.”

Damian smiled and ran towards the hidden gazebo, a spectre in the shadows to anyone else who might see him. When he reached it, he leaned against the railing and waited for her. It took a few minutes, but when she appeared around the hedgerow, his heart skipped a beat. “Darling,” he exclaimed, holding his arms out to her.

She ran to him, nuzzling her face into his chest and feeling his arms encompass her. “I missed you, today,” she said, her voice muffled by his jacket. She looked up at him, her dark eyes deep liquid orbs that made his heart flutter. 

“How was your visit today?” he asked, knowing full well where she had been. “Is your mother still hell bent on your wedding to the Emmerich boy?”

Annabelle chuckled. “He is such a boy. And, yes, Mother is still convinced it would be a good match, however...” she hovered a moment, turning her eyes up to him, “He isn't all that awful.”

Damian deflated and let his arms fall to his sides. “I suppose you've accepted the proposal then?” His eyes became steely as he watched her.

Turning her eyes wistfully away from him, Annabelle answered dolefully, “Presently, yes.” When she felt Damian pull away from her, she turned her attention back to him, her cheeks burning in embarrassment. “It was my duty as an obedient daughter. I had no choice, really.”

“Can you not have your own opinion on the man you are going to marry?” Damian was growing impatient, this meeting not at all what he had envisioned.

Meekly, Annabelle whispered, “Apparently not.” This time, she was the one who turned away, moving towards the step, ready to flee tearfully into the house and nurse a broken heart in the sanctuary of her own room, but Damian had other ideas. As she began to leave, he grabbed her by the arm, swung her around to face him and slammed his lips into hers. His hand held her arm behind her and his other arm encircled her waist, pulling her towards him, allowing her no wiggle room. He held her there for what felt like an eternity, working his lips against hers, parting them with his tongue and delving his own into her sweet mouth that tasted of the wine she had sipped in the carriage on her way home. 

He pulled away from her and in a husky voice growled, “You will belong to no other man.”

Taken aback, Annabelle struggled in his grip. “Is that a threat?” she asked incredulously. 

“No, it's a promise.” Damian kissed her again, not relaxing in his grip of her until he was satisfied. 

Once he released her, Annabelle was limp, holding onto the railing of the gazebo with one hand, Damian's arm with the other. She felt dizzy and hot, a strange sensation gathered between her legs that was a mixture of heat and electricity. “I can't believe you did that,” she said between breaths. “If you were any other man, I'd have slapped you and taken my leave.”

Damian smiled slyly. “I am not any other man, though.” He wrapped his arm around her and pulled her close to himself once again, but this time it was more tender, less possessive.

“You are not,” Annabelle answered quietly, “Which is why I give you this instead.” Gently, she reached her gloved hand to his cheek, caressing it softly with a single fingertip. Standing on her toes to reach closer to Damian's height, she reached up and placed her own delicate kiss upon his lips. “Now, if you'll permit me, I should take my leave. Mother will be wondering what is taking me so long.”

 

“When can I see you again, my Darling?” he asked, his breath sweeping against her ear as he embraced her.

Annabelle considered a moment, then answered, “I've got business in town to attend to tomorrow. Mother is taking me to the bakery to pick out confections for the wedding. Perhaps we could meet by chance there?”

“Alright,” he sighed, “But I am holding nothing back. Your mother may see where our passions lie.”

Annabelle's brow knit in a worried line. “Please.” She uttered a single word, but it meant an entire novel to him, her context as plain as though it had been written. 

Damian let her go and crossed his arms, sulking. “I will behave,” he muttered. “If only for you.” 

As Annabelle began to take her leave, he uncrossed his arms and grasped her hand, kissing the back of it lightly. “Adieu, my Darling.”

Smiling softly, Annabelle answered, “Adieu, my sweet,” took her had from him and scurried out of the gazebo, across the yard and into the house under Damian's watchful eye. He hesitated there, making sure that none of the servants were going to discover him during their evening chores. The sun had gone down and the hazy evening sky still held some of its light. He waited until it was dark, his only source of illumination the heavy full moon that bobbed just behind the trees on the horizon and in this light kept once again to the shadows and made his way back to his horse.

Kit was still there, undiscovered, yet wanting his own supper. Damian swung up onto his back and guided him back towards his own manor house, where they could both eat. On his way, Damian purchased a bowl of soup, a hunk of yellow cheese and a loaf of seedy bread from a street vendor in town and an apple for Kit from a farmer who was packing up his wares for a long travel back to his farm. 

Damian put kit up in his stable for the night once he returned home and retired himself to his own quarters to eat his supper and turn in for the night, visions of Annabelle's sweet kiss still lingering in his mind.

The next morning when he awoke, Damian felt more exhilarated than he could ever remember. He was refreshed, his mind clear, his heart full. Rising from his bed and stretching, he could feel every muscle, every sinew release. “Today is going to be wonderful,” he said to his own reflection as he dressed himself in a pair of black breeches, a white shirt, a deep red velvet waistcoat and black leather shoes. “You look tip top, old man.” 

He had saved some bread and cheese from the previous evening to breakfast on and these he devoured, his hunger for food sated, his appetite for Annabelle just beginning again. As he thought of her, of their evening rendezvous, his heart began to burst, his love for her overflowing. “You shall be mine, in every meaning of the word,” he whispered at her visage in his mind. She had seemed somewhat frightened at his eagerness, but he was determined to gauge himself in the future. “She is not a possession,” he thought, willing himself to treat her as thus, to be more of a gentleman and less of a scoundrel.

 

When Damian went out to the stable to retrieve Kit, a stable boy was brushing him down in long, careful strokes. He spied Damian out of the corner of his eye and dropped the brush. “Sir,” he squeaked, raising his hand in a salute.

“You don't have to salute me, Emmett.” Damian rolled his eyes at the gesture.

The boy dropped his hand. “Sorry, Sir,” he said, “My Da says it's a sign of respect.” His face had turned red and a tear began to trail its way down his freckled cheek.

Immediately, Damian regretted not just accepting the salute gracefully. “Listen, Emmett,” he leaned down and sighed, “Your Da, he's not wrong... It's just...I don't deserve that respect.” He wiped the boy's cheek with his kerchief.

“But you fought in the Navy, right?”Emmett sniffled and wipe his nose on his shirt sleeve.

Damian stood back up. “Yes, I did,” he answered. Eager to change the subject, he looked Kit up and down. “Now, you've done a right fine job here on ol' Kit. I've got business in town, would you like a ride?”

Emmett's face lit up. “I would love to!” he grinned. “I've got some work o finish around here, though.” He pointed to a pitchfork buried in a hay bale.

“Aww,” Damian scoffed, “There's no need if there's no horse here to appreciate it. You can take the day off.” 

His face dropped as Damian suggested the time off. “Will I still get paid?”

Damian reached into a pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a gold coin. “In droves,” he answered as he handed it over and grabbed Kit's saddle from a bench in the corner of his stall.

“Thank you, Sir!” Emmett ecstatically shoved the coin into the pocket of his breaches. “I would love a ride!”


	8. Chapter 8

“Annabelle!” Lady Dinsmore was in a huff, hurriedly concerning herself with the appointment she was certain they would miss. “The carriage is waiting!” she yelled up the stairs. “Mary Alice, can you please go see what is taking that girl so long?” she asked a passing maid.

“Yes'm,” the maid replied, scurrying upstairs to Annabelle's room. She knocked on the door and, upon hearing noises from inside, announced, “Your mother is in a fit, she asked me to tell you to hurry! What's taking so long?”

Annabelle cracked the door open. “Tell her I'll be there presently,” she answered. The maid nodded and scurried back downstairs to deliver the news.

The morning had begun with the sun streaming between the thick velvet curtains of her room, beams reflecting off the polished floor and dust motes dancing in its warmth. Annabelle had stretched, watching the dust motes as they danced in the light, imagining her love there next to her. A proper young woman doesn't think such thoughts, she castigated herself in her mother's voice. I wonder what Mother would think of our secret meetings.

She was up and dressed before her mother had sent for her, clothed in her favorite cornflower blue dress. She pulled her hair away from her face and fastened it with a tortoise shell comb, letting dark tendrils fall around her face and shoulders, the picture of innocence. She pinched her cheeks to bring about a blush and licked her lips to soften them before opening her door and heading downstairs. 

Her mother was in the parlor, fussing with the drapes and barking commands at the staff. “Honestly, when was the last time these drapes were beaten?” she said, exasperated. The poor maid that was the brunt of her criticisms cowered in the doorway. 

“Yes, ma'am,” she answered. “I'll pull them down presently.”

Annabelle swished past her. “Mother, you're being mean to the poor girl,” she pleaded. “It's not like we're planning to have company this evening.”

Lady Jane turned her steely gaze on her daughter. “I did not raise you to speak to me like that,” she growled. “I was merely instructing the staff how to do their jobs properly. And, I'll have you know, we are hosting an engagement dinner this very evening in your honor.”

Annabelle was taken aback. “Mother!” she exclaimed. “I'm barely affianced. Besides, I've not agreed to the match just yet.”

“Your father and I gave our blessings. I've even sent for the Emmeriches for this evening.” She dropped the drapery she was holding. “You and I will keep our engagements in town for the day while the staff readies the Manor. It is my wish to see you married off within a fortnight. Now, fetch your coat and handbag. We'll off within the hour.”

Seething, Annabelle did as she was told, her only respite being the thought that, in town, her beloved Damian would be waiting for her. She was waiting by the front door, concocting ideas as to how exactly she could escape her mother's sight once she saw him. Her only desire was to be alone with him, away from all the insanity, from all the wedding nonsense. “I'm ready, Mother,” she said as her mother approached.

“Good girl,” Lady Jane nodded. “Now, let's get to town.”

The women exited the house and were helped into their carriage by the coachman. Annabelle gazed out the glass, hoping she would catch a glimpse of Damian as he made his way to town, but to no avail. The roads were empty, save their coach, as devoid as the skies were of clouds. They bounced along in silence for the duration of the journey, Lady Jane absorbed in the needlepoint she had brought along, Annabelle lost in her own thoughts.

Annabelle was sure that her mother wouldn't approve of the thoughts that raced through her head. They were comprised mostly of imaginings of Sir Damian, made up of bits from secret meetings and stolen kisses. She nearly made herself blush as she thought about his hands upon her, his lips as they caressed hers, his soft, deep voice as it reverberated in her ear. Luckily, she caught herself, disguising her wanton sigh as a yawn when her mother cast a disapproving glance at her.

“Whatever are you thinking about?” Lady Jane broke the silence.

Annabelle's eyes snapped to her. “Why?”

“You seem self-occupied this morning.” Her eyebrows furrowed accusingly at her daughter.

“Nothing,” Annabelle lied. “I suppose I'm just worried about the wedding.”

Lady Jane smiled. “Well, we're almost to town and then you can occupy yourself with other things.”

Nodding, Annabelle gave her a half-hearted smile. She waited until her mother was once again occupied before she called out to the driver. “How long until we're in town?”

“Not long now, Miss,” he answered. “Almost there.”

She leaned her head back against her seat. An image of Damian flashed in her field of vision and she wanted to reach out to touch him. She closed her eyes to make it seem more real as his imaginary arms enveloped her, his imaginary breath against her neck as he embraced her. “Soon we'll be together, my love,” he whispered. 

The carriage jerked to a stop. “We've arrived,” the driver called down before climbing from his bench to help them out of the cab. He opened the door, flooding the interior with bright daylight. “Do watch yourself,” he instructed as he helped first Lady Jane, then Annabelle down the steps to the dusty ground below.

As she emerged, Annabelle cast a cursory glance around her. No sign of Damian yet. She sighed as she followed her mother into the first shoppe. 

They were busied by the incoming samples of sweets by the baker and his wife when Annabelle spied Damian in the reflection of the window. He gazed in with a broad smile, watching her mother cautiously and ducking to the side when Lady Jane looked up. Annabelle began to giggle, but feigned choking, whispering, “Crumbs,” as the baker held a cup of water to her mouth. “Thank you,” she said after she swallowed a swig of the cold liquid. 

“I'll mark that one down as too dry for your delicate palate,” he said, removing the sample in front of her. 

“Mother,” Annabelle said, “That fit was a bit jarring to my system. I need to attend to something of a personal nature.” She motioned towards the back of the room, hoping Damian saw her as well.

“Very well, my dear,” Lady Jane answered. “Do hurry back. We have so many more samples to get through before making a decision.”

Annabelle opened the door and stepped through. “I will,” she called as it closed behind her. She made her way to the back of the row of buildings to the privy. It was there that Damian waited for her. She ran to him, to his embrace. They kissed tenderly, all their emotions pouring between their lips. “I've missed you,” she whispered.

“And I, you,” he answered. “Now lets get away from this ungodly stench.” He held her hand and guided her away from the privy, down the back alley of the shops and around he corner. “How long have you got?”

She leaned back against the brick. “Not long.” 

Damian braced himself against the wall and leaned into her. “I suppose she's already got you married off.”

Annabelle nodded. “Within a fortnight. I'm losing the will to fight against it. You are the only reason I protest and I can't even tell her about us.” She frowned. “It's futile.”

“I suppose we'll have to come up with a plan to avoid that unfortunate situation.” He smiled wickedly at her, a glint of scoundrel in his eyes.

“What have you got in mind?” she asked uneasily.

Damian leaned in to kiss her, his lips pinning her against her station, as though he pressed his entire being against her. “I'm not at liberty to say,” he whispered. “You should probably get back to your mother before I carry you off here and now.”

“Oh, I wish you would.” She ducked under his arm and moved towards the front of the building. “Will I see you again before then?”

“You will.” Damian smiled again, tipped his hat at her and turned to walk the other direction.

Annabelle watched as he left, his form shrinking as he got further away from her until he was only a speck on the horizon. She sighed and made her way back to the bakery, her heart dropping further and further with each step. She plastered a fake smile on her face as she opened the door. “I'm back,” she said, resuming her place next to Lady Jane.

“Excellent,” her mother responded. “We have so much more to try.”

**************

Damian turned and looked back as soon as he felt he was far enough away from Annabelle. He wanted to assure that she wouldn't run back into his arms and make a spectacle of herself in public. It would not do, for word would have soon enough gotten to Lady Jane and he feared he would have been run out of town, never to consort with Annabelle again. By the time he turned around, she was gone, having returned to her seat in the bakery. He sighed in relief. 

“Hello there, Sir,” came a voice from behind him. 

Damian spun around. “Ah, Kensington,” he nodded. “How goes it, ye old scamp?”

The older man huffed at him. “'T would go better with a belly full o' wine.” He scratched his rotund midsection with fervor. “And your designs on the fair Miss Dinsmore?”

“Ah,” Damian answered, “And there lies the problem. Lady Jane would have her married off in a fortnight to Andrew Emmerich.”

Kensington guffawed. “And what would you have her do? Pair Miss Annabelle with a ne'er-do-well like yourself? That there's a smart pairing.”

Crossing his arms, Damian scowled at his comrade. “I'm every bit as fit, perhaps even more so.”

“But Andrew Emmerich hasn't been in the business you have. I don't think Lord and Lady Dinsmore would take to kindly to a son in law that's been on the wrong side of the law.” He spit in the gutter.

Damian scratched uncomfortably on his left wrist and pulled his shirt sleeve up to reveal the telltale black ink that marred his skin. “I've already paid dearly for that,” he said. “I've made my reckoning both with God and Her Royal Majesty's government. My slate is wiped clean.”

Kensington grasped his wrist and forced the sleeve the rest of the way up. “But what would your beloved Annabelle say if she knew her love had been a pirate?”

Yanking his arm away, Damian pulled his sleeve back down. “She has no need to know. At least not yet. And I'll do away with the man who tells her before I.” His face burned with rage, his voice livid. 

“I'll not be that man,” Kensington answered, “But I can't vouch for anyone else in this godforsaken town.” 

“You're a good man, Kensington.” Damian motioned to the pub. “Care for a pint?”

Kensington grinned, revealing the crooked yellowed teeth of his age. “I never thought ye'd ask.”


	9. Chapter 9

Lady Jane and Annabelle returned to The Manor in the afternoon, hours after venturing to town to make decisions on wedding matters, but still early enough for Lady Jane to feel like she was in control of the dinner preparations. From the moment she stepped over the threshold, she began barking orders to the staff, complaining that enough had not been done to prepare in her absence. The girl she had castigated over the dusting of the drapes was summoned from her duties in the kitchen to pull them down and take them outside once again to be beaten, even though she protested that she had finished the task while they were gone. “I can tell,” Lady Jane seethed. “I know that these drapes were not touched in my absence because, look here, here is the trail from my own finger swiped in the velvet just this morning.” 

The girl, sensing that arguing would serve no good purpose, put her head down and merely replied, “Yes, ma'am.” 

Lady Jane had even recruited Annabelle to oversee the cooks in the kitchen, insisting that this was what she would need to know to run her own household. Annabelle opened her mouth to protest, but the determination that furrowed her mother's brow was evidence that she should keep her mouth shut to avoid having it slapped and being called an ungrateful child. Begrudgingly, she trudged into the kitchen and sat on a high stool in the corner sulking.

“My Lady,” one of the maids addressed, “Why is it you seem so sad today?”

Annabelle glanced up at her concerned face. It was Brigit, one of her favorite maids. Brigit was not much older than she. Her face was fair, her hair a light golden blond, very nearly white, that curled around her cherubic face like a golden halo. Her eyes were the blue of the summer sky and her cheeks always rosy. To Annabelle, she looked like the very embodiment of an angel. “Do I seem sad to you, Brigit?”

“Yes'm.” Brigit dried her hands on her apron and clasped Annabelle's. “You've always filled this house with your light and laughter, but today, you seem sullen, distant.”

Sighing, Annabelle pulled Brigit closer to her and whispered, “If I tell you a secret, do you promise to keep it?” When Brigit nodded vigorously, Annabelle stood from her perch and pulled the maid out through the kitchen door to the maid's stoop. “I'm in love.”

“Well, very well you should be, if you're to be married as soon as I hear you are.” Brigit smiled and her entire face lit up.

“No,” Annabelle shook her head and frowned. “I'm not in love with Andrew Emmerich. He's a very nice man, and I've no doubt he will make a wonderful husband...” her voice trailed off and her eyes began to get distant. She snapped back into her thoughts and smiled. “I'm in love with Sir Damian Rothchild.”

Brigit jumped back, her face belying her shock. “That scamp from the dinner party last week? The one your mother threw out?”

“The very one.” Annabelle leaned back against the brick wall of the house. “I'm in love with him.”

“Well, he is a handsome devil, that one, I'll give you that,” Brigit admitted. “But you've only met him the one time. Surely it cannot be love?”

Annabelle's face turned red in embarrassment. “It's not been just the one time. I've met with him nearly every night, here in the garden, and even this afternoon while we were in town.”

“Your mother will be livid if she finds out.” Brigit's eyes widened. 

“That's why you have to keep it a secret. She'll only find out if someone tells her.” 

At that moment, one of the other maids peeked her head out the door. Upon spying Annabelle, she warned, “Your mother's been looking for you. She is on the warpath.” She disappeared as quickly as she had emerged.

“We should get back in, Miss Annabelle,” Brigit said seriously as she pulled Annabelle inside.

“There you are,” Lady Jane huffed as soon as they were back in the kitchen. “So irresponsible! What am I going to do with you?” She pointed an accusatory finger at Annabelle. 

“I was only consulting Brigit on something for the dinner,” Annabelle answered coolly. “We've decided that we should be serving a proper custard for dessert, as it would go nicely with the roast duck.”

“I don't see why you felt the need to leave the kitchen to consult with her on that.” Lady Jane's eyebrows lowered , furrowing more than Annabelle had thought she had ever seen them furrow before. “Though, I do agree with the decision.” She left the room abruptly, leaving behind her an air of urgency that seemed to spur the staff to quicken their actions.

Soon the kitchen was in a tizzy, cast irons clanking as they hit the wrought iron stove, savory foods sizzling, and the smells, divine. Annabelle closed her eyes and inhaled the fragrant smell of the roast duck as it wafted throughout the room, followed by the yeasty smell of fresh dinner rolls, the savory smell of the pickled salad and the sweet, creamy countenance of the custard as it was prepared. Careful not to get in the way, she made her way around the kitchen sampling each of the foods and marveling over their layered flavours. “You've truly outdone yourself,” she complemented the cooks. 

The kitchen was bustling so much that Annabelle lost track of the time until her mother summoned her from it. “Our guests will be arriving within the hour, you best get yourself respectable,” Lady Jane commanded as Annabelle emerged from the kitchen. She merely nodded meekly before heading up to her room.

Brigit was waiting for her upstairs. “I've been instructed to help you prepare yourself for the evening,” she smiled. 

“Very well,” Annabelle grinned wickedly. “Shall I continue my story?”

As she closed the door to Annabelle's room, Brigit answered, “Please do!”

Annabelle regaled her with tales of her meetings with Damian, from his return the next evening after the party to his secret meeting with her in town. “He has awakened feelings in me I was never aware existed before,” she gushed. “His kisses are like nothing I've ever known, so soft, so tender, yet filled with a passion that makes me hunger for more.” She nodded as Brigit pulled a dark green dress from the wardrobe. “I wish my mother would let me marry who I choose,” she sighed.

“What will you do?” Brigit asked earnestly. “Certainly, you've already been committed to marry Andrew Emmerich.”

“Yes,” Annabelle answered solemnly, “I have.” She pulled her day dress off. “Damian says he has a plan, but he is keeping it secret, for now.” Brigit held the clean dress up and Annabelle held her hands up, sliding into it and helping pull it over her head. “I just wish he would trust me with the details.”

“That man can be tricky, I've heard,” Brigit warned. “I've heard rumours from other members of the staff.”

As Annabelle sat down at her dressing table, she gushed, “Do tell!” Her mind raced with so many tantalizing possibilities, she was immediately on the edge of her seat with what Brigit would reveal.

“Well,” she began, picking up the bristly brush from the table and running it through Annabelle's hair, “It's been said that he lives all alone in that big house of his, save the old caretaker and a stable boy.”

“I'm sure as a writer, he's allowed some quirks,” Annabelle shrugged.

Brigit tugged on a knot. “I've also heard that his uncle died a rather unsavory death in India and that Sir Damian was a privateer.”

Annabelle scoffed. “He was in Her Majesty's Royal Navy. He served when he was in India, before retiring here, to take over his family's ancestral home. He told me that, himself.”

“If that's what you want to believe,” Brigit answered as she twisted Annabelle's hair into a chignon and secured it with some decorative hair pins. “Beautiful, simply beautiful!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands over her cheeks.

Annabelle turned to look at herself in the mirror. She was not used to having her hair up, the custom being that young women wore their hair loose until they were married, and it made her look strangely older. Her cheekbones looked more angular, her eyes more severe and catlike. “I wonder what Damian would think if he were to see me like this.”

Brigit sighed in exasperation. “As salacious as this little tryst you have going with him is, I fear you will only succeed in driving yourself crazy with this nonsense.”

“Now you're beginning to sound like my mother.” Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Please don't tell her what I've told you.” She looked into Brigit's eyes in earnest.

“You've got my word.” Brigit put the brush down and helped Annabelle stand. “Now, you are an absolute vision.”

Annabelle made her way downstairs, hoping the guests had not arrived yet. It was her luck that they hadn't. She was greeted by her father. “Don't you look positively beautiful!” he exclaimed. “I daresay, Andrew Emmerich will be duly impressed.” 

She twirled for him, letting him see the richness of the emerald green velvet. “I feel like a different person,” she said.

“Well, you are a young woman, now, and affianced we well.” He nodded. “Your mother and I believe it is time for you to look and act the part. Soon you will be married and running the household of a manor all your own.”

At that moment, Lady Jane bustled down the stairs. “My dear, Annabelle!” She was ecstatic beyond words and gasped at the sight of her only daughter. “You are such a lovely young woman.” 

“Thank you, Mother.” Annabelle had barely time to answer before the sound of carriage wheels crunching on gravel was heard.

Lady Jane swished past Annabelle and Lord Arthur. “I do believe our guests have arrived,” she exclaimed as she threw open the door. Annabelle followed behind her, followed herself by her father.

The coachman was helping Lord Emmerich out of the carriage. The old man may have been well-aged, but he was anything but feeble as he eschewed the coachman's hand in favor of grasping the side of the coach and helping himself down. “Lady Dinsmore,” he greeted, “You are looking fine this evening. Thank you very much for your invitation.”

“You're welcome. Lord Emmerich,” Lady Jane answered as he grasped her hand and kissed the back of it gingerly. “May I present Annabelle and my husband, Lord Arthur Dinsmore?”

“Annabelle, it is a pleasure, once again,” he smiled, kissing her hand as well. To Lord Arthur, he extended a hearty handshake. “Arthur, it is fine seeing you again, especially under such pleasant circumstances.”

“James, always a pleasure,” Lord Arthur said solemnly. 

Annabelle peeked out the door, once again, to see Andrew exiting the coach much the same way his father had, but with a more youthful vigor. He bounded towards the house with the exuberance of an over-excited puppy. “Lady Dinsmore!” he said excitedly as he took her hand and kissed it. He also extended his hand to Lord Arthur and shook it vigorously, but to Annabelle, he embraced her and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Annabelle, my darling,” he gushed. “I have been looking forward to this evening all day.” Annabelle could do nothing but smile pleasantly and nod.

“Well, gentlemen,” Lord Arthur addressed. “Shall we go to my study and let the ladies do what they are wont to do.” He proceeded down the hallway, followed by the Emmeriches.

When they were gone, Annabelle let out a great sigh. “How many more guests are we receiving this evening?” she asked.

Lady Jane cast her a disapproving glance. “I've invited everyone.”

“May I please go for a walk in the garden, before the rest of the guests arrive?” Annabelle was planning on it, with or without her mother's consent. 

Luckily, Lady Jane nodded. “As long as you return when more guests arrive.” 

“I will.” Annabelle exited through the front door. It was still light outside, the sunshine softly filtered by high evening clouds that were shining a beautiful gold. She made her way to the gazebo and sat down on the bench inside, leaning her elbows on her knees and resting her face in her hands. This was the first time she had felt fully relaxed since she had been with Damian that afternoon, the first time she felt like she could breathe without her mother lording over her and dictating her every move. She considered her evening, how she had been greeted by Andrew Emmerich, the expectation in his eyes, and wished that Damian were there to hold her in his arms, to sweep her away from the evening, from the life she was destined to lead. 

As the sun sunk lower on the horizon, she stood and paced the wooden floorboards, listening to their peculiar squeak as she stepped on them a certain way. The flowers in the garden were in full bloom and their perfume lent a surreal air to her silence. She leaned back against one of the posts and remembered how Damian had kissed her here and felt a delicious chill run the length of her spine. When, at last, she heard more carriages, followed by excited voices and happy laughter, she left the gazebo and made her way back into the house through the french doors in the parlor.

Andrew saw her enter and in an instant he was at her side, guiding her towards her mother. Lady Jane smiled as they approached. “Let me present my daughter Annabelle and her fiancee, Andrew Emmerich,” she cooed as each person entered. They all smiled and congratulated the couple and then congratulated Lady Jane and Lord Emmerich on the wonderful match they had made.

Annabelle began to feel like she was in for a long night.


End file.
